


Purple Skies

by backintimeforstuff



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1960s America, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Mild Smut, road trip fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26048239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backintimeforstuff/pseuds/backintimeforstuff
Summary: The Doctor and Amy embark on a four-day road trip across 1960s America. Long hours trapped in the car lead to backstreet hotel rooms, and eventually, New York City.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Amy Pond
Kudos: 14





	1. Four Days from New York City

“Doctor-”

“Hush, Pond.” 

They’ve been having this argument for what feels like hours. It’s just him and her, and frankly not a lot else, because wherever they’ve ended up is as barren as Aunt Sharron’s kitchen. Sandy plains stretch for miles under a clear sky, and sitting on a rock, Amy watches the Doctor rummage around in the foliage with the sonic screwdriver between his teeth.

“Do you have any idea where we are?”

He stands up to his full height, fixing his lapels in some defeat. “If I had to guess, I’d say Earth.” 

Amy casts her eye around at the dunes. The heat from the sun is like nothing she’s ever felt before. “Care to be any more specific?” 

The Doctor shrugs. “Well, there’s a slight metallic twang in the air.” He sticks his tongue out just to prove it - “which suggests Western America.” Amy’s a second away from getting her hopes up. “Or Australia. Or quite possibly the Sahara Desert.”

She just sighs instead. “So, no on both counts, then?”

“Amy, Amy, please humour me.” He takes her gently by the wrists before standing her up. “Whatever you may think, I have very little control over the functionality of the TARDIS and-”

“Yeah, I’ll say!” She pulls away from him, casting a disgusted look back at the box in question. Standing a few feet away in the dust, it’s battered, and most likely broken. “One minute this morning it was all – fancy a trip to 17th century Calais, Pond - and _then_ what do you know? Fifteen technical problems later we’re stuck in a random deserted desert with no idea where we are! I mean, we could be _anywhere!_ Literally _anywhere!_ ”

The Doctor listens somewhat patiently to her outburst. 

“Well, we’re definitely _somewhere_.” He goes back to routing around in a nearby bush. “Look, once we get out of this – once the TARDIS is fixed an everything is fine and dandy, I _will_ take you to 17th century Calais, but right now I do have to work out what’s happened, and I’d much rather,” he pauses, waggling the sonic at her, “that we weren’t fighting about it.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“No harm done.”

\--- 

Eventually though, after what feels like three days, the Doctor gives up. Having waved his arms around in increasing irritation, he shoves the sonic back in his pocket with a discontented growl.

“It’s time for plan B.”

He’s moping at her, like some kind of school child, forced to abandon his plans of mass destruction.

“Is it any good?” She’s beyond sceptical at this stage, seconds away from retreating back into the TARDIS and leaving him to roast out here. He just looks at her.

“Well, since there’s nothing much we can do-”

Amy raises an eyebrow. “Genius, you are.”

“What I mean is-”

“Even _I_ could have told you that.”

“I’m well aware you’d like to.” He smiles at her briefly, for a second, before running a dusty hand through his hair. “And as much as I’d like to camp out here in the middle of the desert with you, the TARDIS isn’t exactly going anywhere.”

“So?”

“So, I think we better find some civilisation, don’t you?” He licks his finger and points north. “There’s a motorway – 3 miles that way.”

“And you’re proposing we hitchhike, are you?” Amy’s not sure whether today can get any worse. He’s got that mystical look about him, and she hates it. 

“All roads lead to Rome, Pond.” 

\--- 

Hours later, Amy’s exhausted. They’ve found the motorway, finally, after miles and miles of trudging over rolling hills and tumbleweed. The sand is getting everywhere, and on a long tarmacked ribbon out west, it’s all beginning to feel distinctly more American. With the drone of the cars passing by, the Doctor takes one look at the scene and wafts _1965_ out of nowhere, as if the date itself has come to him in a vision off the back of a Cadillac license plate. 

Of course, the TARDIS is still inexplicably broken and the Doctor’s still being an idiot, but it least it seems they’ve ended up somewhere with a sense of normality, somewhere where there’s life, and people - ordinary, recognisable people from a century that Amy knows all too well. God knows she’s not best pleased to be walking out under the 40-degree sun, but at least they’re not stuck somewhere in the Dark Ages, or on a distant planet where even the names of the stars themselves make no sense.

Beside her, the Doctor’s walking along the side of the road like the optimist he is, watching the birds flutter in the sky and the town creep closer in the distance. He’s got his hands jammed almost gleefully in his jacket pockets, as if he’s about to find the answers to life itself at the end of the highway. 

When the nth car passes by, ignoring their gestures entirely, Amy sighs.

“You know why no one’s stopping to give as a lift, don’t you?” She casts an almost disdainful look in his direction. “It’s ‘cause they don’t want to be seen in an open top car with an idiot in a bow tie.”

Standing almost stoically by the dune-side, the Doctor reaches up and straightens the offending article in a silent protest. “Didn’t think _you_ minded.” 

“I don’t have a _choice_.”

“Well-”

“Shut up.” Amy says, quickly, almost regretting starting this. “Don’t _leave_ me here, whatever you do.”

The Doctor just laughs. “Promise I won’t.”

“On what?” Amy’s quick to reply.

He counts off on his fingers. “On both of our lives, on fish custard, and that time I abandoned you for fifteen years.”

“It was _fourteen_ years.” 

“Oh, well, in that case-”

Amy whacks him on the arm. 

\--- 

Much later, just as the sun begins to fall past its full height, they make it to the outskirts of a small truck-stop town.

Out on the main high street, or a through road, for want of a better word, there are little hanging baskets and drooping sun-bleached trees, old brick buildings and a sense of calm Midwestern serenity. 

Out on a preliminary look around, little cafes and drug stores pass Amy by – little glimpses of life that she feels an odd connection to. After months of running down corridors away from monsters with unpronounceable names, a paper shop is all it takes to take her breath away – charting rise to a strange longing for a life she’s never lived. 

Still, as pretty as this little town is, with its sixties shop fronts and an awful lot of not-much-else, she’s keen to move on. Stuck in 1965 and focusing on the present - finding civilisation, fixing the TARDIS, isn’t that what the plan is? 

Striding back over to the Doctor in the middle of the square, she can tell she’s not going to like what’s coming. He’s got that look in his eyes again, the one that tells her pure insanity is on the horizon. In any case, he seems to be eyeing an empty Cadillac out on the exit to the highway.

“Come on then, tell me. What’s happening?”

He just smiles at her. “Riverside, Utah. That’s where we are.”

“And the good news is?”

He bites back a laugh. “Good news is – it’s August 1965, and we’re about four days away from New York City. What do you think?”

Amy raises an eyebrow. He grins. 

“Fancy a road-trip, Miss Pond?”


	2. Sweet Taste of Heartache

For an intergalactic hero, the Doctor’s quite good at driving. Pulling out onto the interstate, he’s all hand signals and indicators, swinging east to the city that never sleeps. 

Mountains arise on the horizon and countless dunes pass by, crossing state lines into Wyoming before the sun starts to set in the sky. In the passenger seat, inches from the radio switch, Amy doesn’t quite know what to think. 

“…You’re insane, you know that?” 

Next to her, the Doctor laughs. Whether he’s overheating in that tweed jacket of his, he doesn’t say. “What gave it away?”

“You were fixing the TARDIS, and now we’re, what? On a road trip to New York?”

“Problem?” He eyes her briefly, staring out at the rolling landscape. 

“No, I just – I don’t know. It doesn’t seem very _you_.” 

“Ah, well, you see-” The Doctor starts, reaching over and shoving the radio on, “That’s not insanity, Amelia, that’s spontaneity. And I thought you might like it.” 

A silence settles, punctured only by the hazy radio announcer, distorted in the growing breeze. Behind the mountains, the sky glows gold. “And it makes a change from fighting about Calais.”  


Amy just smiles. Four days from New York City. They’ve got a long drive ahead. 

\---

By the time the sun starts setting, Amy has no idea how far they’ve driven. This late into the night, on this stretch of road, there aren’t many other cars around and the Doctor’s being decidedly quiet. He’s been humming to the songs on the radio and tapping on the steering wheel, but he hasn’t actually _said_ much, nothing about when they’re stopping or even where they’re going. 

As much as she’s excited by the prospect of New York, it’s a big place, and she knows that all too well. The first time they went together, back in the spring of 2010, they walked for miles just to get anywhere, taking subway trains and ferries just to catch sight of something on the front of a postcard. Blossom fell from the trees and starry nights guided the way back to reservoirs. 

They must be going for a reason. This time, with the summer air of 1965 wafting all around them, there must be something he wants to see, or someone he wants to meet. She just wishes he’d tell her. God knows she’d like him to.

Before she can even get the question out, he pulls over off the highway, sluggishly rolling the car to a halt on the flat sand at the side of the road. Parking up in the light of the dying day, he just looks at her. 

If she has any idea what he’s planning, then it’s not what actually happens, – him, taking her hand, and making a run for it, out across the sand, up onto the dunes, a little way from the roadside. Under the sunset, he’s out of breath and grinning like an idiot. 

Sand everywhere, heartbeat through the roof, Amy hasn’t moved this fast in ages. Cooped up in a car all day, she can barely feel her feet, and here he is, making her run with him. They’re clattering over the dunes together like it’s the end of the world, their fingers entwined in a vice-like grip. She doesn’t have any choice but to follow him. 

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“Venting out the energy!” The Doctor pants back, vaulting a small bush and running flat out, putting a gap between them. “If you wanted to keep sitting down, you could have said!”

“ _You_ haven’t said anything all day!” 

“So?!” 

“You could have given me some forewarning!”

“How many times, it’s _spontaneity!_ ” 

If she could catch up, she’d whack him, she really would. 

Eventually though, when even he tires of the tumbleweed and the bumpy terrain, they slow to a halt together. Out in the evening, the mountains glisten and the birds flock to their roosts in the sky. 

“I’ve always liked these skies.” The Doctor says, taking her hand when they’ve gazed on it for a while. Copper gold and purple at the edges, it’s never ending painting as far as Amy’s concerned, shining as brightly as the stars coming into view. 

Walking out underneath them, the Doctor’s stroking their fingers together almost absentmindedly, and if Amy’s supposed to look away then the universe isn’t letting her. She doesn’t quite know what’s got into him; all of this talk of starlight and running for their lives - without even thinking about it, it’s the night before the end of the world again and they’re stumbling over tumbleweed and falling in love with the clouds. 

He offers her a piggy back and she accepts it, hands clawing at shoulder blades and running up into his hair. Out here, away from everything, it’s just him and her. Amy lets out a wicked smile. “Run like the wind, cowboy.” 

Travelling as they are, they reach the side of the highway in no time at all, the sky eclipsing the valley like the entire night is on fire. 

“An ode to a purple sky.” The Doctor starts, letting her down, his eyes glinting with reflection. 

“Oh, stop it, you’re just being fanciful.” Amy’s this close to pulling away from him, although she does appreciate the poetry. 

“Thought you might like it?”

“If you mention Calais one more time, I swear-”

He doesn’t give her a chance to finish that sentence. Leaning up against the car, he arches her back against the window and kisses her, softly, like it might be the end of the world. 

Hands in her hair, she’s not exactly complaining, but he doesn’t know why she lets him either - he’s never been quite this forward before and frankly, if he’s being honest, it’s another question of forewarning.

Closing the gap between them, their mouths entwine and they stand there for what feels like forever. 

When he eases off, Amy’s flushed pink, clashing with the red of the sky and her hair all in tousles. The Doctor smiles.

“Ode to a purple sky. And the girl I showed it to.” 

After Amy’s finished staring at him for what feels like ten years, pleased and perplexed at the same time, she stutters. 

“What’s got into you?” 

He just holds the door open for her. “Oh, I don’t know, New York City? Come on you, better get some sleep.”

She doesn’t quite know why she gives in to that either.


	3. Somewhere Out West

The next morning, parked up at a gas station, Amy’s not quite sure where she is. 

From the second she opens her eyes all she can see is sky – clouds floating overhead with a line of trees sloping off into the distance. 

Waking up in the backseat to blankets and a tweed jacket in place of a duvet, Amy struggles to pull herself up as the Doctor grins. He’s sitting watching her from the front of the car, suspenders lose, his hair is tousles. 

“Sleep well?”

He’s given a look. “Where are we?”

“A handy roadside diner. Nebraska. Thought you might be hungry, we missed dinner.”

“Yeah cause you-”

“ _Are_ you?”

Amy thinks back to the night before. For all his talk about purple skies and unexpected kisses – he’s right. They’d driven for miles into the blackness, without a care in the world.

“Yes. Obviously.” 

\---

Inside the diner, Amy watches the Doctor doodle on the breakfast menu. Sitting at a table by the window, he’s putting little smiley faces and stars beside all the choices, and a crudely drawn police box under the specials. Despite everything, she can’t seem to take her eyes off him.

“Hey, about last night…” There’s something about their kiss that she can’t quite get out of her mind. He drops his pen immediately.

“I won’t… do it again, if it’s not what you want.”

“That’s not what I mean, I…” 

She doesn’t know how to say it. If I love you is what she means, then God, she’ll never get it out. He’s looking straight at her, curious, light eyes trained, unblinking. For a second it feels like she might be brave enough, but then, the moment passes. She flicks an empty sugar sachet at him instead, as if it was her intention all along. 

“Never mind.” 

When he lets the subject drop without another word, Amy lets him off, and starts thinking about something else altogether.

She’s narrowing her eyes at him, titling her head and trying to work out what’s wrong with the picture. 

Here they are, sitting out West in August, and he’s wearing a tweed. Sleeves buttoned right to the cuffs, it’s almost like a strait jacket, it really is. 

The Doctor catches on to her look.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… aren’t you hot in that?”

The Doctor shrugs. “The sun that rises must always set, Pond.”

“Right but-”

“And out in the evening where the wind stands the test of time, we can-” He catches sight of her expression. “Yes. The short answer to your question is yes.”

\---

Out the front of the diner in Deuel County, another rustic main street lies, winding its way towards the mountains. Having disappeared to look for a clothes shop, the Doctor’s gone for a while, leaving Amy in the back of the car to kill some time. Lying across the burning leather, she scrolls through her camera phone, swiping past all the pictures of purple skies she took the night before. She’s just about to aim it at the sky, to take one of the sunrise when –

“Hey, Pond!” 

From around the corner, the Doctor strolls, flashing a smile along with his new attire. 

He’s swapped tweed for a polo shirt, patterned with comical bow ties. Braces and sunglasses thrown into the mix, if anything, he looks a bit like a Back To The Future extra.

Amy can’t help but laugh at him. “What is that?”

“You told me to change!”

“Yeah, not into _that!_ ” 

He only smirks at her. “Did you want to drive?” 

\--- 

Out on the highway, things are quiet. Despite his suggestion, the Doctor’s firmly behind the wheel, and as the landscape rolls on by, Amy muses. She glances up at him when she’s sure he’s not looking, focusing so hard on the road that’s he’s biting his lip in concentration. Turned up against the blaring sun, his shirt collar rests on the back of neck, hair splayed around it. It takes her a moment to realise she’s never noticed his freckles before. Strewn across the side of his cheek like stars in the night sky, they’re one of the few things she’s only just picked up on – like the scar that runs the length of his forehead, or, his new-found tendency to be very affectionate. 

“Are you ever going to tell me why we’re doing this?” Of all the things she wants to ask him, it’s firmly at the top of the list. 

Behind his tinted glasses, the Doctor just laughs. “It’s mostly a surprise.” 

Amy pouts at him. “I hate your surprises, they’re-”

“You do _not,_ ” The Doctor injects, disbelief written all over his face, “remember that weekend in Paris? Or New York, the first time around?”

In view of his question, Amy’s suddenly in the mood for a challenge. She sits up a little straighter, clutching her phone in one hand as if she’s going to whack him over the head with it. She can’t quite believe what she’s hearing.

“New York wasn’t a _surprise;_ I’d been badgering you for ages to-” 

“It was _absolutely_ a surprise, Amelia, you were half gaping at everything when we got there.”

“Doesn’t mean it was a-” she falters. “Oh, shut up.” 

The Doctor just grins. 

Instead of inflicting violence with it, Amy unlocks her phone and points the camera at him, catching him mid smile on a highway out west. 

Outside another gas station when they stop again, the Doctor makes a point of wrestling the phone from her grasp and taking a picture of her – discreetly, when she’s stopped looking. Eventually, if he shows it to her, he hopes she won’t mind. Standing out on the forecourt, leaning up against the car, she’s beautiful, after all.


	4. Believing in Magic

Out on the road, when they’re not sitting at roadside diners or exploring sand dunes, they’re listening to the radio again.

For the summer of August 1965, the music is practically old school, with the hits of the British Invasion crackling out from the dashboard. The Rolling Stones, Sony and Cher, to Amy it’s like living in a particularly stereotypical biopic, or falling headfirst into the record collection her uncle used to play. 

“Bet you I can predict the hits.” The Doctor says, lounging across the seat as they start driving again. 

“Yeah, I’ll say.” Amy rolls her eyes as the radio leaves a silence between songs. “Mad man with a time machine, you are. Go on then. Satisfaction?”

“Nope.”

“My Generation?”

“Not even _close._ ”

“Yesterday!”

The Doctor laughs and shoves up the volume. “Do You Believe in Magic. 100 quid.”

Out on the highway, the radio blares into life, playing a song Amy’s never heard before. The sound of drums meets their ears, rhythm guitars following after, and then - 

_Do you believe in magic in a young girl’s heart?  
How the music can free her whenever it starts_ \- 

Amy sighs slightly as the song continues. “How’d you do that?” The Doctor grins. “I’ve got a very good memory.”

After a while, when songs by The Yardbirds and The Beach Boys pass on by, Amy smiles. 

If she’d had her way, they’d still be bickering on in the first desert by now, standing by the broken TARDIS, or off to regency Calais. They’d be running down exploding corridors and thwarting villains, and thinking about it, that’s not what she wants at all. 

Out here, they’ve been driving for days now - across American plains, sitting in diners like it’s Groundhog Day - and yet, she wouldn’t have anything else. She loves the fighting and the world-saving, of course she does, but she loves _him_ more, that ridiculous idiot of hers. Sitting as he is with bow ties plastered all over his chest, she couldn’t think of time better spent than to just be _with him_ , watching the world go by as they meander their way across a tiny stretch of planet Earth.

After all, he’s back to humming and tapping fingers on the steering wheel. It is, on all accounts, quite endearing.

“You okay?” The Doctor asks, when she’s been quiet for a while. 

“Yeah, sure. Why’d you ask?”

“You’re looking at me strangely, as if I’m about to evaporate. Disappear out of existence entirely and leave you stranded here.”

“Well, are you?”

“I promised you I wouldn’t.” He fiddles with the dashboard again, letting white noise emanate from the grill. “Believe me when I say I never will.” 

One hand on the wheel, he takes the sonic screwdriver out of his pocket and aims it leisurely at the radio – jolting it back into life with songs that shouldn’t even exist yet. 

For the next hour or so, they drive along the highway and across state lines, drinking in the view and singing at the top of their lungs. Bad harmonies and stupid grins, _Somebody to Love_ fades out into an entire Queen playlist, before leaving them with _Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me_ by Elton John. 

Duets aside, the sun is indeed high in the sky and - 

_But you misread, my meaning when I met you –  
Closed the door, and left me blinded by the light _–

“It’s a bit anachronistic, don’t you think?” Amy asks, brushing stray strands of ginger from her eye-line as the landscape thunders by. 

_Don’t let the sun go down on me -  
Although I search myself it’s always someone else I see,  
I’ll just allow a fragment of your life to wonder free –   
But losing everything, is like the sun going down on me._

The Doctor just takes her hand and holds it as the traffic thins, bleeding out into the distance of the entire world. 

“Always, Pond.”

\--- 

Later that day, when Amy realises the sonic can pretty much summon anything onto a battered old radio, she’s lounging in the passenger seat listening to 21st century podcasts. As he evening becomes colder, she loses track of what they’re even about – historical stuff, mostly – but the blanket’s warm and the stars are nearly out, so she’s not exactly minding. 

Sitting next to her, the Doctor mutters under his breath sometimes, calling out inaccuracies or commenting on the lives of figures lost to time. Among other things, he reckons he can tell her better stories – ones with fairy-tales and legends, and a personal side thrown in. By the dashboard light, in the dead of night, somewhere out west, he does. 

He tells her the names of all the stars they’re driving by, all the races and the people that live out among the distant planets glittering right in front of them. He tells her about escapades and adventures they’re yet to go on, or places he’s been already and wholeheartedly recommends. He tells her about the battles, and the villains, and the ancient blue box, still sitting duly on the sand a couple of hundred miles back where they left it.

Even when she’s fallen asleep, head lulled to the side on the passenger seat, he keeps talking, keeping himself company as the hours glide on by. For all the crazy things they could be doing together, he wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Even when he’s parked up by the side of the road again, the early hours seeping into the night, he just sits there. He doesn’t want to leap out across the sand this time, gaze at purple skies or even kiss her like he’s been touch starved – for she seems far too tired for that. 

Instead, he lays with her in the back seat, arm over her shoulder as she drifts in and out of consciousness. 

When constellations come out, she’s collapsed over his chest, ginger hair splayed out like an auburn spiral in the night sky. 

“You won’t, will you?” Amy asks, finally, long after he thinks she’s asleep. Nails picking absentmindedly at shirt buttons, she’s trying to place the twin heartbeats she can hear echoing out through the dusk. 

“What?” The Doctor’s perplexed.

“…Let the sun go down on me?”

He pulls her closer as the night closes in. “Never.”


	5. As Am I

The third day starts off just as the last did, with Amy waking up in the back of the car with no idea where she is.

Parked up by the side of the road, the Doctor’s sitting right by her, grinning trough the sunrise with his arm around her. 

She takes one look at the land and the sky, at the blueness and the redness, and the desolation of it all, and reaches up to kiss him.

It’s not like – what are they calling it? – their _purple skies_ kiss, all sticky and spontaneous and out of the blue, it’s simple and halfway to human, if he’ll let her get away with that description.  
She’s got a hand on the side of cheek, and the other on his chest, and it’s _good morning, raggedy man,_ at best – short, sweet and right on the lips.

“Morning, mister.” She says, once she’s put a gap between them, stretching her legs and pulled herself out of the car. “Found us a non-descript American diner yet?”

He just stares at her. “…Might have done, yeah.” 

\---

Counter-top tables by floor length windows, Iowa or otherwise, it’s something. 

Sitting opposite him like she always does, Amy’s fiddling with her fingernails and the corner of the table, flicking through menus like she’s confused by the words printed there. She might as well be wearing a polo neck and her hair in a Beatles fringe for all the good it’s doing.

Sipping on his coffee like some kind of European aristocrat, the Doctor raises an eyebrow. 

“Are you alright? You’re a bit… jumpy.”

“It’s just… I don’t know.” Amy’s trails off, swilling the ice-cream around in her milkshake like she’s thinking of other things. Under a watchful eye she scans a gaze around the diner, as if someone might accuse her of being from another planet, ask her all kinds of questions about a time they shouldn’t know about yet. 

Sat dressed in a 21st century miniskirt, it’d hardly surprise her.

“Don’t you think I’m out of place?”

The Doctor just looks at her. “Why’d you say that?”

“Oh, come on. Look at me.” At the sight of his oblivion, Amy sighs. “Not exactly _of the time_ , is it?”

“Mary Quant was-”

“Running around _Saville Row_ , in _sixty-seven_ , the last time I checked.” Amy gives him a look. “It’s not going to do me much good out here in rural America, is it?” 

He shrugs. “Being anachronistic is-” 

“-Better, so you keep saying. But it’s a bit rich coming from a man dressed like a _Thunderbirds_ extra.” She sighs. I just feel like I’m being stared at constantly like I’m an animal in a zoo. I might as well be-”

“Beautiful.” The Doctor says, catching her entirely off guard. “If you let me get a word in, I was about to say. I think you’re beautiful. Wearing that, wearing whatever. So what if other people are staring? It doesn’t make a difference to _me_ , and nor should it _you_.”

\--- 

“You can’t say things like that!”

“Why not? I just have done.” 

Round the back of the diner, where Amy’s just dragged him by the lapels, the Doctor shrugs. He doesn’t know why she reacts so extremely to compliments, but it is, on all accounts quite amusing. “You let me kiss you full on, two nights ago – not forgetting this morning, may I add – and now what? You get your hackles up at me because I called you _beautiful_?”

“You just- _can’t!_ ” She’s running hands through her hair as if she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing, staring with wide eyes at the man who’s just dared to open his mouth. The Doctor eyes her.

“I find it hard to believe that no one’s ever said that to you before.” 

Out here, by the door to the kitchens, there’s a dry wall, a sandy floor, and not a lot much else. Alone in their faux disagreement, Amy almost rounds on him. 

“Of course they have, God, but it’s you! You, Doctor, my raggedy man, otherworldly, genius, all the rest of it! You fell from the sky when I was seven years old, turned my life upside down, there’s no way you can think I’m beautiful!” 

“Why, do you think I’m _lying_ to you?” He’s seconds away from staring her down. She can’t believe that, surely.

“…I think you’re the boldest man I’ve ever met.” 

Almost as if she’s let an enormous weight off her shoulders, Amy stands there in the sun. Half tired, she folds herself in his embrace, arms around his waist, head buried in his shoulder. 

Caught off guard, the Doctor laughs, stroking up her backbone.

“Boldest out of what? The endless list of young Englishmen queuing up to get between your legs? I’m astounded.”

He hears her moan quietly, whether in disbelief, he’s not too sure. Perhaps it is an unforgivable comment, as Amy herself would say, whacking him on the arm with all the makings of decadence. Perhaps with all of their diner stops and starlight kisses, they’ve become a bit too familiar with each other. 

She looks up at him, with a sense of Scottish curtness. “They were hardly _mindless,_ they were-”

“Entirely besotted with you, clearly.” He’s got hands in her hair now, twisting red ribbons around fingers as if they’re pieces of straw already threaded into gold. 

“Well, I-”

“As am _I._ ”

It takes a while for Amy to remember how to breathe after that one, partly because she’s entirely dumbfounded and partly because her instant reaction is to kiss him senseless, shoving him up against the back wall of the diner with all the force she can muster. Hands running through hair and clawing at collar bones, God, he’s impossible, he really is. He’s positively talented, in fact – in the way that he seems to melt into her, letting the stars flood their eyes like they’ve never seen the sun before. It seems to her that in all of this, all the endless driving and the purple skies, these moments they’ve had together will be all that she’ll ever remember.

In any case, the Doctor’s hardly got chastity written all over him, he may be ancient and kind and all the rest of it, but he knows how to lead her on – mouths still entwined, positioning her exactly how he wants her. And if he’s at all opposed to all the young Englishmen come before him then it doesn’t seem that way, arching her up as he is and getting in between her legs. Fingers scrabbling at zips and working overtime, in these kinds of situations, it helps that she’s slightly taller than him. And the miniskirt, at this stage, is only helping matters. 

“I don’t think any of them really _meant_ it.” Amy says, roughly five minutes later, exhausted to the point of disbelief – “The others, they just meant, y’know, _Amy Pond, the girl with the tits and the great legs,_ they weren’t thinking about me, or in fact anything other than themselves.” 

Leaning up against the wall, the Doctor’s panting like he’s just run a mile, fringe sticking to his forehead. He turns to her with a grin. 

“Amy Pond, the girl with the beautiful soul and the beautiful… other stuff. You heard it from me first.” 

\--- 

Back in the car, after all that, the tone is unquestionably different. As if she’s turned back into a schoolgirl, Amy breaks out into giggles every time she catches The Doctor’s eye, punching him playfully on the arm or pulling up blankets so he can no longer see her. 

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?”

The Doctor shrugs. “Well, because I’m nice-”

“Because you just shagged me senseless?” Amy raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “If it’s all it takes to get the truth out of you, I should do it more oft-”

“Because I’m _nice,_ ” the Doctor repeats, sliding braces back on his shoulders, “I’ll give you a hint. Tonight.”


	6. For All Time

After they stop off at the nth gas station, Amy takes it upon herself to drive. Partly because the Doctor’s been silently badgering her for several days, and partly because, from where she’s sitting, he looks pretty tired already. 

“I took it out of you, didn’t I?” She’s smirking at him as he pulls over, resigned to the fact that he needs to curl up under a blanket for a bit. 

“Well, you are _good_ at it.” 

“I had a lot of practice.”

“No kidding.” He clambers over her in the least dignified way possible, fringe flopping in front of his eyes. “Follow the road to Amherst. Wake me up if you get lost.”

\---

As the afternoon draws in, Amy drives them further east down the highway, casting thoughts over the Doctor’s Ohio directions. The sun sinks beneath the streetlights, and Illinois is firmly behind them.

As lonely as it is without him banging on about something, it’s also strangely comforting to see him asleep in the review mirror, sprawled out on the backseat. Breathing in rhythm with the rolling tyres, God knows what he’s planning behind that alien exterior of his, what kind of surprises he’s got locked away, waiting to pounce when starlight rises in the sky.

The last time they were in New York, he’d gone all out - taking her to a Broadway show, and up the top of the Empire State. He’d even taken her hand and danced with her, out on Times Square, as if the world as they both knew it was about to cave in. 

As crazy as it sounds, she’s pretty sure the ten minutes she spent with him round the back of the diner topped all of that today. He might be from the other end of the universe, but he knows how it works like the back of his hand, all this human interaction and intimacy. Being so familiar and other worldly at the same time, she supposes it’s why he’s able to trip her up so easily. One minute she’s arguing about Calais, and the next she’s letting him loose all over her. Almost absentmindedly, she runs a hand down her inner thigh, feeling for the marks he’d left there. All sticky kisses and shoulder blades, she’s pretty sure he could do anything to her and she’d happily give in.

God, if he was awake right now, she knows he’d laugh at the sight of her. He’d look her right in the eyes and tell her, _it’s very human of you, Pond,_ or, _I’m very flattered,_ or something else that would make her whack him over the back of the head with the road map. She’d swipe at that ridiculous grin with painted nails, swatting at his smugness despite adoring every inch of it. If he _was awake,_ she knows she’d have a hard time keeping her hands off him – running fingers through chestnut hair and trying to find where they left off. 

Driving into the dark, she wants nothing more than to get back to that moment, to feel him pressed up against her like he’s been yearning for it all along; giving in to wandering hands and the moans that escaped her lips. He’d pinned her up against the wall and _had her,_ right there, as if he could do nothing else, as if one mindless shag was the most important thing left in the universe.

She takes a quick glance at the backseat, and makes a mental note to ask.

\---

Eventually though, when the Doctor awakes of his own accord, he sits bolt upright under the purple sky like he’s just been punched into consciousness.

“Any problems?” He says, narrowing his eyes at the lights in the distance, and at Amy, who’s watching him with some amusement. 

“Nope. None at all. We’re half an hour from Amherst, you’ll be pleased to know. Anywhere in particular you’d like? Another roadside diner? A dodgy hotel room? A random backstreet where we can-”

“Turn right here.” The Doctor says, vaulting over into the passenger seat without any regard for the moving car, with no indication that he’s even heard her. “Where we’re going, we need to be dressed for it.”

At first, he takes her to a tailor’s shop in the outskirts of the city, where the lights are low and the racks of clothes are endless. Perhaps it’s because he’s held the door open for her, taken her by the hand and shown her around, but she’s got butterflies in her stomach that she can’t quite ignore.

He changes out of his frankly outrageous polo shirt, swapping it for a cord jacket and the tightest polo neck she’s ever seen. Combing his quiff back into place, he looks like some kind of stereotypical beatnik, off to change the world with the dawning of a new age. 

Amy can’t help but laugh, standing right by him as they gaze into a mirror. “You’re getting very into this, mister.”

“I’ve barely started.” He grins, wafting his hand to the end of the shop. “Have a look, see what you’d like.”

“You want me to _change,_ and you’re still not telling me where we’re going?”

“Oh, just something, flashy, y’know. Rock and roll. That kind of thing. It’s for-”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” 

An hour later, a dance floor stretches beneath their feet. Beside him, Amy looks around at the vaulted ceiling and the blues band up on stage, expectant participants milling about at the sidelines. 

“All of this for a dance?”

The Doctor just shrugs. “I like dancing.”

“Mad you are.” She’s got one hand in the crook of his elbow and the other round the neck of a champagne glass. “And this still _isn’t_ the surprise?” She still can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. Another woman swans past them with the biggest beehive she’s ever seen. 

“No, it’s the prelude to the surprise, the, practice surprise, if you will.” The Doctor takes the last sip of his drink and smirks at her. “But helps to go all out with these kinds of things, and I am very glad you’re wearing _that_.” 

“Oh, shut up.” 

Amy tuts at him and tugs at the hem of her dress. It’s vibrant green and longer than she would have liked, but at least the two of them seem to go together now, almost as if they’ve been out here their entire lives, existing in the midst of a bad Sony and Cher fantasy. Hair up, make-up done, legs on show, if anything, she’s just ready to have a good night and a bit of a laugh.

Perhaps quite predictably, when the music starts, the Doctor’s the first one to leap out on the dance floor, grinning from ear to ear in amongst the hundreds of smiles. He takes Amy’s hand and twirls her around, watching as ceiling lights burn brightly against red hair. Their fingers interlock they seem coordinated enough, swaying gently and speeding up where the band decides. Mismatched feet and a sense of hilarity, Amy’s laughing like he’s never quite seen her before, drowning her sorrows in the sea of a thousand faces. 

He’s all she has eyes for anyway, hands in the small of his back, pulling him closer than decency might allow. Eyes burning bright, everyone else in the room seems to vanish, and it’s like the night before the end of the world all over again, just the two of them and miles of endless starlight. When the ambience slows, he holds her, almost to the point of stillness. 

“Ames.” He says quietly, when she’s close enough to hear, breath tickling the side of her neck, “Will you fly away with me?”


	7. Ode to a Purple Sky

As preliminary surprises go, that night on the dance floor is pretty up there. Fingernails running over cord stitching, Amy’s convinced that it’s the clearest sensation she’ll remember that night – the Doctor so close to her that the stars might align. 

But then of course, in all his spontaneity, he proves her entirely wrong. 

He leads her out of the venue and towards the end of town, where the rain starts falling from the navy sky. Street lights hanging in the mist, he takes her to a backstreet hotel room, where everything that follows is between them and the Gods themselves.

Perhaps later, she might criticise herself for being so easily led on, but in the moment, he’s right there, and staring so impassively at her that she doubts the universe would let her disagree. 

Before another coherent thought can even cross her mind, she’s pulling him back in by the lapels, winding hands around the back of his neck. Their kiss isn’t exactly what she’s call heroic, but it’s sloppy enough, human enough for her to feel entirely at home with it, like she’s back out in the desert with him under their very first purple sky.

Fingertips in auburn hair, the Doctor’s taken to parting her lips, exploring her mouth with his tongue. After he eases off, he finds a second spot, preposterously close to the first. 

“Move, will you?” Amy says, when he does it the third time, swaying on her feet with a level of uncoordinated impatient ecstasy.

“Hmm?” 

“Down a bit.”

He obliges, tilting her head back and finding the line of her neck, planting long kisses there. Lost in the moment, she doesn’t notice him reach up and unclasp her hair, sending waves of ginger tumbling everywhere. 

Otherwise engaged, Amy’s too busy feeling her way under his jacket, rubbing circles along his hips just to make him moan. She’s grappling with his belt buckle like the universe might disapprove, threading leather through fingertips and finding bare skin at last.

It feels odd, the thought of it, not to mention the sensation – of her raggedy man now holding her fast against the headboard, burring his mouth into her collarbone and the rest of him inside her. 

She’s got nails digging into his hair and running the length of his back just to ride it out, staring up at the ceiling without even seeing it. Entirely glazed over, she forces her eyes shut as the feeling washes over her, eyelashes finding flushed cheeks. 

Rocking back and forth between her legs, the Doctor might as well have stars in his eyes with the expression he’s giving her, panting inches from her lips like some kind of hero straight out of a fairy-tale.

She doesn’t know what it is about him, whether it’s the rhythm or the general skill that takes her breath away, but something catches her right here, breath hitching in the musk of the crumpled duvet. 

Of all the young Englishmen she’s ever had before, they’ve never been quite like this. 

\---

Eventually, when he rolls off her, when their skin cools faster than she might have imagined, he holds her. Fingers wound around auburn hair, he’s got one thumb running down her shoulder blade, sending shivers up her spine every time he touches a finger there. Lying across his chest, Amy’s pretty sure she could sleep forever here, lost in the embrace of a man twice as impossible as she first believed him to be. Heartbeats duly plodding and wrapped up in sheets, they’re quiet as the rain thunders down outside their window. 

“Ode to a purple sky.” The Doctor says, finally, kissing her hair. “And the girl I showed it to.”

“You’ve already done that one.” Amy laughs, sleepily, thinking back to the first night out in the desert. She traces a thumbnail along a line of freckles just above his rib-cage, feeling soft skin and chest hair.

“It’s a poem, Ames.”

“Oh?”

Flicking his eyes upwards, the Doctor recites:

“ _On nights like this, when my blood runs riot  
With the river of youth and mad desires -  
Then is the time when I most miss you  
And I swear by the stars and my soul and say,  
That I will have you and hold you and kiss you  
Though the whole world stands in the way._”

Finally, Amy remembers how to speak, but it’s only after she’s fought back tears and a desire to snog him senseless all over again.

“Did… did you write that?”

The Doctor just laughs.

“On no account. But it reminded me of you.”


	8. On the Eve of St Agnes

The fourth day in Amherst dawns bright and early, flooding the hotel room with sunlight.

After three days in the back of a car, Amy’s content just to lie here, feeling the mattress under aching limbs. Casting her mind back, she can’t quite equate it to sleepless nights or last night, and the thought of the Doctor all over her. 

Speaking of the Doctor – he’s up around already, running hands through an unkempt fringe and pulling the polo neck on over his head. 

“Seven hours drive today, Pond, we’ve got to get going.” He’s like a mad man, wafting his arms around, shoving on his jacket. “…Useless you’d like to stay?”

“I’d like you to do what you did to me every night for the rest of my life.” Amy mutters, head still firmly on a pillow. 

“Hmm.” The Doctor mulls it over, “It’s appealing, certainly. But first-” he leans over the bed and drags her up by the waist. “We have an appointment in New York City.”

\--- 

Along the last stretch of highway heading east, everything is starting to feel more and more like suburbia, with neighbourhoods appearing on the map like blinking stars as they make their way towards the city that never sleeps. 

Still refusing to say why, or where exactly they’re going, the atmosphere in the car is playful to say the least, with Amy grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat just to wrangle the truth out of him.

“Come on, it’s been _four days_ already.”

“Then I’m sure you can handle not knowing for another six hours.” 

The Doctor’s brushing off all her attempts with the rationale of a 900-year-old, spinning the steering wheel towards a busy junction.

“You _very nearly_ gave in outside that diner in Iowa City.” Amy’s not finished with him yet.

“I did not.”

“You _totally did_. It was all stony faced I’m not telling you, until that one half-arsed shag-”

“It was not half-!” The Doctor breaks off mid-sentence, his jaw dropping in disbelief. “You liked it! And you liked it last night too!” He turns his attention to her, just briefly, before gazing back out at the blue sky. “If I recall correctly, I think the phrase you used was ‘ _shagged me senseless_ ’, and trust me, I know enough about human anatomy to-”

“Alright!” Amy stops him in his tracks, whacking him over the head with the road map. “Enough.”

After a moment of silence, she says: “If you must know, I think you’re very good at it.” 

“High praise, coming from you.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Not a chance.” He’s fiddling with the radio again, trying to find a station, or quite possibly a distraction. “How are you, anyway?”

Amy’s momentarily caught off guard. “ _How_ am I?”

“Yeah.” The Doctor says, catching her eye before looking away again. “I wasn’t sure whether I – I might have hurt you.”

“Oh-” Amy casts her mind back to the night before, and the sensation of the Doctor. Still in her green dress from the Amherst dance hall, she feeling the underside of her legs with perhaps more secrecy than necessary. “No. No, I’m fine. All good. What about you.”

The Doctor just shrugs. “I had a good night.”

“You were definitely going for it; I’ll tell you that much. Not _half-arsed_ at all.”

“…And?” He has a feeling he’s going to regret what’s coming.

“And, on principle,” Amy says, stretching her legs into the foot-well, “You have to tell me where we’re going now.”

The Doctor just laughs. 

\--- 

Into the mid-morning they amuse themselves with word games, with tongue twisters and lines of poetry. Amy’s hazy recollection of learning Keats in high school makes the Doctor laugh, scrabbling around in the back of her mind for mismatched stanzas and _The Eve of St Agnes._

“Right up your street, that one, I would have thought.” The Doctor says, as they cross over the state line into Pennsylvania.

“What, because a young girl runs off with an imaginary bloke in the dead of night?” She flashes him a look.

“Well.” The Doctor shrugs. “You might have liked it.”

When he’s recited it back at her – all forty-two stanzas of it, off the top of his head – Amy gives in. Slightly put out by his insane mental capacity and hazy memories of Leadworth, she reaches into her pocket for a scrap of paper and a hotel pen. She’s not going to let him get away with being fanciful, not at this stage. 

As it turns out, among other things – sex included - the Doctor is a master at Noughts and Crosses. Ten games in, he’s started to beat her without even looking.

“If you’re about to say I’m predictable, I swear-”

The Doctor smiles. “You’re the _least_ predictable person I have ever met, I promise. Wild, bloody minded… down-right insane. But you’re still human.”

As he stanches the pen from her, leaning over to draw a line through his win, Amy yelps.

“Both hands on the wheel, mister!” 

He eyes her. “You wish.” 

The afternoon draws in, and after a quick stop for lunch in the outskirts of Clearfield, they’re back to driving east. 

The sky starts turning when they cross over into New York state, the sun sinking ahead of them as the city lights grow brighter. 

Amy’s amusing herself with eye-spy in the passenger seat, looking this way and that at the surroundings. 

“It begins with P.”

The Doctor looks out at the sunset and grins. 

“That’ll be the purple sky, I reckon.” 

\---

Fixing her hair in the rear-view mirror, Amy takes to imaging what the night might have in store, memories of the Plaza Hotel flooding her mind.

The last time, they’d take a trip to the Statue of Liberty, swanned around museums with all the time in the world. But here, in the front seat of an open top Cadillac, it’s 1965. New York is at the height of glamour. As far as she’s concerned, this mysterious surprise is going to have to be a bit more special than a tourist trip. 

Finally, after four days of waiting, of sand dunes and roadside diners, the Empire State building rises in the distance as they cross into Lower Manhattan. Amy’s well prepared for the Doctor to park up somewhere, take her hand and show her the sights, lead her into a glitzy theatre or out by the fountain in Central Park. 

Instead, he keeps driving. 

He crosses over Brooklyn bridge out of Manhattan without saying a word, and Amy has to say something. 

“Ugh, you said _New York_ , right?”

“Yes?”

“Well we’re-”

“Going to Queens, Ames.” Up ahead, the boroughs glisten. “I know where I’m going, I know the Statue of Liberty when I see it.”

Probably quite stereotypically, her knowledge of New York consists only of Manhattan, of Lexington Avenue and bits and pieces from Friends. Crossing over these bridges is a whole other territory for her - literally and otherwise - and the Doctor can tell she’s getting a bit nervous. 

“Yeah, but what the hell are we-”

“You’ll _see_.” 

\---

20 minutes later, he pulls up in the parking lot of a baseball stadium, barely a free space in sight. All around them, people are milling about, guiding families into entrances and up into the seated stands.

There are teenage girls with placards and bored dads, children on the point of hysteria.

“We here to see a Knicks game?” Amy asks, raising a flippant eyebrow. 

In answer to her question, the Doctor opens up the glove compartment and takes out a battered flyer, yellowing with age, and hands it to her. He just grins.

_Sunday, August 15th, 1965.  
The Beatles at Shea Stadium._

“You’re kidding.”


	9. Of Shea Stadium and Daisy Chains

Out in the parking lot, Amy’s beside herself. She’s grinning from ear to ear, punching him on the arm and spinning around like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. 

“How did you-”

“Call it intuition.” 

She throws herself at him, jumping up into his arms just as he’s finished grabbing the car keys. In the midst of it all, legs around his waist, they’re inches apart.

“ _Thank you._ ”

“It’s no problem.”

The Doctor’s thrilled by her excitement, by flailing limbs and motion sickness smiles. Perhaps what he loves the most about this moment is the kiss she gives him, right on the mouth like she’s lost track of all of the words she’s ever known. 

“Now – best concert in history-” He starts, setting her down again, “who do you want to be? A press photographer, a sexy assistant, or a screaming teenager? Psychic paper does wonders for the ego.”

“Screaming teenager, any day. What about you?” She’s got stars in her eyes at this point. 

“Screaming teenager’s hapless boyfriend?” 

Amy cackles. “Sounds good to me.” 

He holds out his arm and they’re about to leave, heading towards the stadium and the most insane night of their lives when the Doctor doubles back.

“Oh, Ames, one last thing-” He says, scrabbling about again in the glove compartment. 

“If this is another concert flyer I swear-”

“No, it’s-” He wafts his arm around for some clarity before pulling out a weathered daisy chain. Amy just stares at him.

“I made it for you while you were asleep in Amherst. I went out to watch the sunrise and there was a little patch of grass round the back of the hotel. Sorry it’s a bit squashed.” 

He presents it to her like it’s a priceless golden chain, slipping it over her head and letting it rest about her shoulders. 

“How do I look?”

She’s standing there waiting for approval, auburn hair fluttering in the wind. The Amherst dress is making his mouth water, although he’ll never tell her – vibrant green as ever and drop dead gorgeous on her.

“Beautiful.” He considers the daisy chain. “Very Sixties. Shall we go?”

\--- 

Inside Shea Stadium, the atmosphere is like noting Amy has ever encountered before. There must be at least 60,000 people here, filling every seat she can see, and all screaming at the top of their lungs. The floodlights cast an eerie orange glow over everything, sweat dripping from railings and sticking to hand-made banners. 

For one brief moment, when a helicopter files overhead carrying the world’s most-prized musicians, Amy think the ground is going to open and swallow her up – crashing towards the centre of the Earth. She wouldn’t be surprised if it took the entire stadium with it, pulsing and electric as it is – anticipation building to the maximum. 

“Bloody hell, they’re keeping us waiting a bit, aren’t they? When are they coming out?” From behind a pitch fence, her nails meet wire, wide eyes scanning the empty stage. It feels like it’s been hours since she first caught a glimpse of them, hovering in the safety of the purple sky. 

“9:16.” The Doctor says, standing duly next to her with an air of content. “Trust a time traveller.” 

At 9:16 precisely – and not a second afterwards- Amy’s met with the loudest roar she’s ever heard. It echoes around the stadium like a jet plane, greeting The Beatles as they run out on stage. Waving to the noise with instruments held aloft, the Doctor watches as the crowd comes alive – screaming, crying, and living out exuberant fantasies in the confines of fences and stadium seats. In Amy’s capacity as a screaming teenager, he thinks, she’s definitely fitting the bill.

For the next 25 minutes, it feels as if the world’s ablaze. It almost doesn’t matter that she can’t see a thing, or hear anything at all over the screams and the PA system – being here, right now, this is what having a time machine is for. As if the world is revolving right around them, the whole of the time and space could cease to exist and she wouldn’t even notice it – so caught up in one evening that she might just act on a moment of impulse.

It’s nights like these that remind her why she first ran away with him all those months ago. Fighting monsters and saving the universe is one thing, but to be here, to have history happen in front of her eyes – it’s like nothing she could have ever imagined.

She’s jumping around and screaming lyrics she hopes they’re singing, grinning like the world might crack at a minute’s notice. In one moment of spontaneity, as other girls are being stretchered off the pitch in sheer exhaustion, she throws her arms around him again, planting a sloppy kiss on the side of his cheek. _Can’t Buy Me Love_ draws to a close and she’s almost crying, wet eyes reflecting violet clouds and the stars that have just come out.

_I’m Down,_ and John’s playing the keyboard with his elbow - rambling in double-dutch and diving into song after song with as much mayhem as Amy might expect from the Doctor. Entirely besotted with his mad plans and torrential spontaneity, the latter just grins at her.

_Twist and Shout_ and Amy’s completely gone, holding on to his hand as if she might break it, gazing in awe without really seeing anything. Her look reminds him of their night in Amherst, all caught up and overwhelmed by everything. In that moment, as _Dizzy Miss Lizzy_ reverberates around the stadium, he doesn’t know whether to be put out or entirely flattered. 

_You're just a-rockin' and a-rollin'  
Ooh, I said I wish you were mine -   
Come on, come on, Dizzy -   
Love me ‘till the end of time._

Long live The Beatles, he ends up thinking. 

\---

Afterwards, back in the car park, when Amy’s flushed pinker than the night sky and glazed all over, Doctor’s just smiling. What was it she’s said, all those days and miles ago? He knows she hates that smug _job-well-done_ look he gets on days like these, when he traps her round his finger and proves her right - showing her the wonders of the universe in the midst of a rock concert. 

Perhaps that’s all wonder really is – spontaneity, humanity – all the things Amy protests at while being defined by at the same time. For two people with keys to a time machine, they’re oddly fond of an Earth holiday, swanning around on countless days out doing very little at all. Encapsulated by their mortality and humanness, their time together in Amherst and Iowa City seems to shine the brightest, and in that respect, he doesn’t think he can begin to complain. 

He calls out to her as she’s clambering into the car. Preparing for an extensive drive, whatever she’s anticipating, backseat or seedy hotel room, it’s a long night at best. “Hey, Ames, were you planning to drive back?”

She just looks at him. “The TARDIS is-”

“Is right here.” He fishes the key out of his jacket pocket, letting glint in the floodlight. He’s got another surprise for her. “Sorry, did I not say?” 

Without warning, the lamp light flickers, and a wheezing a groaning fills the air. If the other concert goers can hear it, then they’re not paying attention – as a blue police box materialises out of thin air and solidifies itself with a thump.

Amy’s staring at it, unsure whether to believe it. After tonight, anything could happen. 

“It… wasn’t broken, was it?”

“Of course not.” The Doctor eyes her. “We landed where we did entirely on purpose. I just needed a diversion.” 

“You absolute-” She’s about to thwack him on the arm again, he can feel it coming.

“Idiot?”

“ _Legend._ ”

Looking back on it, it doesn’t feel like four days ago, the both of them sitting out under the sun with no idea where they’d ended up. The walk along the highway into Riverside seems simultaneously like five minutes and a lifetime ago, blurring together in amongst hazy memories of starlight skies and sloppy kisses. She supposes, with the Doctor in tow, it goes without saying. 

Taking one last look at the view, the stadium gleaming in the distance like the trophy at the end of a pilgrimage; Amy takes his outstretched hand and lets him lead her away. 

\--- 

Inside the TARDIS control room, where the walls glow copper gold, the Doctor smiles. As much as he’s loved this week, trekking out West in America with Amy, home is indeed where the heart is, and he’s about to give it all to her. He presses a few buttons on the console and swivels around to face her.

“So, Amelia – The Beatles at Shea Stadium. Lived up to the expectation? Was it _really_ any good? Was it better than a half-arsed shag round the back of a diner?” 

Amy splutters, laughing at the backhanded comparison. The sheer thought of it, hair falling out of place, he supposes she’d call herself a mess if she could get in front of a mirror. Halfway out of the control room on her way to find a purple sky and a desert to sleep by, Amy whacks him on the arm. 

“Very, very nearly.”

With a final gesture, the Doctor releases the handbrake and lets the TARDIS dematerialise – taking them somewhere that’s almost definitely not 17th century Calais. One day, he thinks, they might just get there.


End file.
